Nothing

Sometimes it was the sound of the city that captivated me, sounds that to my best friend sounded like hell, though to me sounded real, like I was part of some machine. It was a cacophony really. A thousand car horns mixed with a thousand sirens along with the low hum of the indefinable, which droned like small waves lapping up on to the shore of concrete. Maybe in the end it was the combined continuity of the electric life, the twenty-first century blood. Though despite its intimidation or its disgust the sirens had become much more to me. Their call was alluring, appealing, a call of discovery. To me it had become a modern jungle where people were animals, lampposts the trees and brick the canopy.
It was this that kept my attention. The window down, a cigarette in hand, driving home from work through the London veins. My arm fit well leaning out the window with the cigarette and every time I brought it to my mouth I looked at myself in the rear view mirror of the car, seeing my eyes with a back drop of London behind it.
That shop there, the kebab shop, it was all part. The pub next to it, which probably had a windy stair case leading down into an underground of pints, cigarettes, jests and cynical statements. The off licence shop next to that, selling everything, a middle easterner behind the till. A church, a cage for God. All condensed into one. How complex I thought. Everything being so worn. Nothing looking new. My car, a 1983 Peuguot 205. And the complexity of it was astounding, where these images shone brightly in the side and rear view mirrors juxtaposed with the quick picture of my eye or my cheek or the my mouth with the half smoked cigarette loosely hanging out.
I drove up the constricted street, where cars were parked half on the curb and half off. I traversed and arrived in my mud pit. My door, that green door that I forever long for on a Friday standing there solitary. And behind it she would always be there.
I walked upstairs slowly and quietly. I was never quite sure why I would do this. I guess I figured that I would always stumble upon something that I wasn’t supposed to hear, though I never did. Once I came home to hear her talking on the phone but she never really said anything about me that was otherwise pertinent. I opened the door to the smell of fish. I loved when she cooked fish. I took off my coat and shoes, loosened my tie and walked over to the kitchen where she was. It was mild outside so she had the window open a crack to let out the smell of the fish oil that she used. Despite this the smell was still strong. There she stood, working on the meal happily, not noticing that I had just walked into the room. We said hello to each other and hugged. I would change now and usually nothing more would be said.
Powdered Salmon with boiled veggies was the main dish. I liked it.
She moved across the floor gracefully. Beautiful. Whenever I watched her, I felt that I can understand beauty, like it was some course you could take in high school making me a professional dictator of it. This was something of a pretentious state of being for me. I knew that I was the only one in this room, that I’m the one that’s with her. Though this nature was brief, like time, it would and always slip away. Like her crossing from one end of the room to the other, everything has an end. And sadly, it was because of this that I would watch her, the magnificence, always with a profound sadness. It was repetition really. I come home at half six, the same time as her, make a snack, with her, both sit on the couch and possibly watch some Tele. Barely anything would be spoken. Perhaps a recollection of the day.
How was your day she would say.
It was all right I would usually say. If I possibly said it was a bad day then that would require more explanation. I wouldn’t want to get into any conversation with her for she would never respond with any excitement.
The bagel and the tea would be good.
The TV would be boring. She finished her snack and lit a cigarette. She held her cigarette in way that was statuesque, a portrait that was locked away in an attic. Maybe it was her presence or possibly the confidence in which she displayed these characteristics. I’m not sure.
Did you want to go to the pub with Paul and Sharon?
She took a drag off her perfectly rolled cigarette, blew out the smoke, tapped the excess ashes into the tray, and said no. I don’t like Sharon. She tries too hard and she ends up annoying me she says.
So whaddya want to do then?
Nothing she says.